


.taste.of.summer.

by zeraparker



Series: .all.too.briefly. universe [2]
Category: Formula E RPF, Motorsport RPF
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Plug, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, Fantasizing, Fluff and Smut, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Masturbation, Phone Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sex Toys, Sex Toys Under Clothing, Talking, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-24 00:59:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19162579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeraparker/pseuds/zeraparker
Summary: Andre is alone in Gordes, and he's bored. Long-distance relationships suck sometimes. Andre is also the biggest tease.Set in the .all.too.briefly.-verse but can be read as a standalone (seriously, it's just fluffy porn), set some time before Lemans.





	.taste.of.summer.

**Author's Note:**

> I said I wanted to write some more for this pairing, so have some fluffy porn, because why not. Also I had way too much fun writing phone sex between two people who are not naturals at phone sex. XD

The first, real week of summer doesn’t come late, but that doesn’t mean that Andre hadn’t awaited it impatiently, craving the heat and the sun. The air is different, he can’t really tell why, but there’s something lingering in it, a promise somehow, that this time the warm days won’t be followed by weeks of grey skies and falling temperatures, that this time the summer is going to stay. Nature seems to feel it too, the plants all around his house breaking out in the sweetest smells, dazzling him when he walks beneath the bows of the trees, the fragile spring blossoms replaced by pungent summer blooms.

It’s Benoit’s proposal to come over for a couple days of fun. He brings his family, occupying Andre’s guest room, and a couple friends that rent out one of the chalets not far away; Andre is all too happy to host at his place, the scent of shared meals and the fragrant smoke from the barbeque he’s had set up in front of the pool house mingling with the dry air. They spend the mornings in the hills, riding their buggies around the dusty countryside, before joining the girls around the pool, whiling away the afternoons in the sun, getting a tan and watching the geckos run along the warm stone walls. Andre feels like one of them, the sunshine fuelling up his batteries, making his skin thrum with restless energy as he lies on a sun lounger.

There is still the grit of sand stuck at the roots of his hair even after his guests have left. Andre rubs his fingers through his hair to slick it out of his eyes as he walks around the house, clearing away the bits and pieces left out of place. His cleaning lady will come over after the weekend, tidy everything up in a way he’d never have the patience to, but he doesn’t like the rooms looking like a mess, tries to burn some of his restless energy by stripping down the beds, cleaning up the kitchen and the barbeque. It’s only a couple days before he has to leave for the next race, and he already anticipates getting back into the car, his fingers twitching for a good result, for the adrenaline and the satisfying exhaustion afterwards, for the clinging touch of his race suit and the cockpit around him.

Lemans is still waiting for him, as well as the end of the FE season, but he’s looking forward to the summer break too, longer than the years before with both series ending in the summer and not starting until late autumn, the off-season stretching his usual summer break into hereto unusual length. He’ll be going to Seefeld of course, his usual four weeks of training there, but he doesn’t yet know what he’ll spend the rest of the time doing: Helmut has agreed to free at least two weeks for him, to go on vacation together somewhere. Andre is tempted not to plan anything, to just drag Helmut to Gordes and spend the days lying lazily around the pool, the nights in bed together. The idea of taking him to Peru is there too, though, or to go back to Japan for a couple days, to take him to see all the places Andre discovered in the many years he’s lived there. It’s a whole new set of possibilities, planning something with someone, instead of just for himself, and he feels himself curiously excited about having to compromise.

It’s not always fun though. The house feels awfully quiet after the steady noise of a small crowd over the past days. Andre switches on his summer playlist, listening to the music while he sorts dishes into the dishwasher, washes the glasses by hand, sorts away the left-overs that will easily keep him satisfied for the next days. He misses the easy domesticity of someone by his side to share the clean-up, to distract his mind. He misses the casual touches and hidden promises behind them, the way Helmut has become more comfortable with showing Andre his affection throughout the days, appeasing the need for reassurance Andre has by simply standing close to him, their shoulders touching, or sliding a hand to rest at the small of his back. They’re casual enough to carefully keep it up when they’re at race tracks, and Andre finds himself anticipating them with barely hidden longing.

The sudden hit of loneliness takes him by surprise. Andre takes a deep breath, leaning against the kitchen counter as he looks around himself at the debris of the last couple days. He can feel it’s the comedown of too many people vying for his attention, the lack of sleep caused by evenings fading late into the night and early mornings woken by the excited noises of children splashing into the pool. His skin is crawling, dried out and hot from the sun, itchy with lack of touch other than his own for so many weeks now.

With a sigh, he pushes himself away from the kitchen counter, determined to drag himself out of his blue mood. He opens the fridge, retrieves a plate with fruit slices left over from breakfast, slightly brown from oxygen exposure despite the clingfilm he wrapped it under, the jug of homemade iced tea. Setting both on a tray alongside his sunglasses and book, he takes them outside, sets them on a side table beneath the parasol he set up in front of the pool house, adjusting the sun lounger next to it so that it’s partly in the shade, stripping down to his swim trunks. The bottle of sun screen is warm from being left out in the sun, the crème runny as he slathers it over his skin.

Outside, in the shade of the parasol, the music he left running inside is just so audible over the sound of the trees and the occasional noise of birds and insects. Andre puts on his sunglasses before he lies back on the fluffy towel he spread over the sun lounger, forgoing his book in favour of a nap. The warmth makes him sleepy, the soft breeze almost like a caress over his skin.

Fuck, he’s horny. Andre sighs as he turns over, lying down on his stomach with his arms folded under his head, clenching his thighs as his own weight pushes his half-hard dick against the towel. His forearm is pressing against his lips, and he opens his mouth, worries the skin between his teeth, tasting sweat and the residue of sun screen. He’s only human after all, Andre thinks as he lets his thoughts drift. There had been a lot of naked skin over the past days, with how they had hung out by the pool for most of the week, the girls in their bikinis, the guys in their swim shorts. Of course he had looked, maybe looked twice at one of the acquaintances Benoit had brought along, had noticed the gazes that lingered just a little too long and the easy smiles. A year ago, Andre wouldn’t have thought twice about pursuing the unspoken offer; these days it had only made him take a step away, counting back the days to the last time Helmut had kissed him, the last time he’d touched his dick, had taken it into his mouth. They are taking it slow: Andre can’t explain the wariness about pushing Helmut too far, about asking for something Helmut isn’t willing to give, that a wrong demand could end what new balance they found with each other, despite the fact that Helmut had no qualms about touching Andre, showed enthusiasm at being touched by him. _I want to learn what you like_ , he had said the last time they’d seen each other before he had pushed Andre down into the mattress of the hotel bed, had held him down as he’d kissed down Andre’s chest and then mouthed at Andre’s cock, clumsy but determined, and it hadn’t taken much at all for Andre to come all over himself.

The thought alone makes his dick twitch inside his swim trunks. Andre groans, rubbing one hand through his hair. He feels wanton; he knows the walls around his property are high, the gate secure, the distance to the next houses alone making it safe from unwanted eyes. He could easily sunbathe in the nude, but hasn’t dared. Just the thought of being outside, hot and a little turned on, makes him shiver. He wants to know what Helmut would do if he found him like that, whether he’d kiss him, touch him, drag him inside to his bed, whether he’d mind them being outside. God, he wants to be fucked. It’s something they haven’t done yet; it’s something Andre hasn’t done in over a year, his sexual encounters in the months before Helmut a lose string of one night stands where he never felt comfortable enough letting anyone that close, not the people he knew like Tom or James, not the strangers he’s already forgotten the names and faces of.

Sighing, Andre rolls onto his back, his arousal undeniable now, the way his cock his tenting the front of his lose swim shorts. He reaches down, palming himself through the fabric, but it’s the wrong kind of sensation, not what he craves at all. He bites at his lips, knowing that just pushing his hand beneath the fabric will lead to a quick, easy orgasm, but without satisfaction. He’s riled up, the muscles of his arse clenching as he bucks against his palm, trying to make up his mind.

He ends up in his bedroom a couple minutes later, sorting through the bottom of his wardrobe. It takes him a surprising amount of time to find the box he’s looking for, only attesting to how he hasn’t used any of the contents in what feels like forever; he’d had it shipped with the large share of his belongings from Tokyo by cargo boat, neither really needing nor willing to take the risk of it being among the examined luggage on one of his flights. It’s non-descript enough, dark plastic with a snap-on lid. He carries it the short distance to the bed, sits down and places it on the duvet in front of him.

Silicon and leather have a peculiar scent, Andre decides when he opens the box, putting the lid aside, looking down at the small selection of toys and gadgets he has accumulated over the years. He didn’t buy most of them to use; some he got as gifts, serious or joking, others he picked up when walking around Tokyo with James, more out of morbid fascination than because he was actually interested in them, some just to fuck with James, to see the disbelieving look in his eyes. There’s a pair of leather cuffs he likes, the material worn soft with use, a simple black vibrator, a dildo, some butt plugs; nothing too fancy, too kinky, that he bought for himself over the years. A box of condoms is squashed into one corner of the plastic box and he picks it up, reads the expiration date, making a mental note to buy more as he sees they’re gone over, tosses them onto the nightstand to throw away later. A half-empty bottle of lube has leaked into the bottom of the box, and he picks that out too, trying to clean away the dried-up mess with some tissues, deciding to leave the box out to clean it properly later.

It’s the set of butt plugs he goes for, his fingers lingering on the different sizes. He foregoes the smallest immediately, the size not much more than a finger, not what he wants to feel. He eyes the largest one for a moment, but he knows it’ll take work after not having done it for so long. It’s tempting still, the irresistible stretch it would make him feel, but he doesn’t think he’ll have the patience for it, the possibility of not being able to take it nagging at his headspace. In the end he picks up the medium sized one before he can change his mind, setting the box down on the floor next to the bed, replacing the lid. He gets up from the bed, picking up the congealed lube and expired condoms from the nightstand, throwing them into the bin under the sink, then opens the faucet to clean whatever dried lube from the leaking bottle might have gotten stuck on it, dries it on the towel.

His arousal which had gone down to a quiet simmer while dealing with all the practicalities flares up anew as he pushes his swim shorts down his legs, stepping out of them. He feels naughty, standing naked in his bedroom in the middle of a late sunny afternoon, the French doors on the ground floor all wide open, the possibility of getting caught, as unlikely as it might be, sharpening his nerves. He opens the cabinet under the sink, retrieving lube, squeezes some onto the fingers of one hand before he braces himself against the sink with the other, reaching behind himself. A needy noise steals itself over his lips as he circles his hole with a slick fingertip, playing over it lightly. He closes his eyes, can’t really bare watching himself in the mirror as he teases himself. He wonders what it would feel like to do this in front of Helmut, to have him watch attentively, the way he always watches everything Andre does, curiously cataloguing his movements, his reactions. He sticks his arse out more, changing the angle as he pushes the tip of one finger into himself, his muscles quickly relaxing under the familiar touch even as he wishes it was someone else doing it to him.

A soft noise escapes him as he pushes inside with one finger unerringly. He lets his head hang, forcing himself to relax his whole body, to move into it, open up to the intrusion. He feels desperate for it, his mind getting caught up in the sensations he hasn’t felt in so long. It doesn’t take long at all for him to work a second finger in along the first, relishing in the slight pain. His flushed cock is hanging heavy between his legs, neglected. Andre wants to touch himself, for a moment overcome by the urge to just bring himself off, but he only tightens the grip where he’s braced against the sink, forces his fingers roughly into himself. There’s a certain appeal in drawing it out, in taking his time now that he’s got it, in playing with himself without having to adhere to a partner’s wishes. He curls his fingers inside himself, probing for his prostate, but he’s never been able to get the angle just right like this.

Andre eyes the plug that’s sitting on the counter not far away. Keeping his fingers slowly fucking into himself, he reaches out with his left hand, clumsily presses some lube into his palm and then slicks it around the silicon of the plug, wetting it generously. Picking it up, he brings it behind himself, spreading his cheeks with one hand as he nudges the tip against himself, can feel himself flush at the wanton display. With an exhale, he presses the toy forwards, feeling the unyielding plastic push into him so different from the warm softness of his fingers. He keeps up the steady pressure, despite the inevitable clench he can’t entirely fight, pushes past that too, coveting the burn as the plug slips in past its widest part, the sudden pull of his body welcoming it as the flared base settles against his hole. Fuck, it feels big, despite Andre knowing full well the size of it, the way the silicon sits rigid within him as he braces himself with his arms against the sink, shifting his hips to get used to the pressure. It nudges against his prostate just so, and he lets out a shuddering breath at the tease, wriggling his hips. God, he’s missed this.

His cock is straining up against his stomach, flushed, the foreskin retracted from the tip slick with precome. He looks down as he puts his hand around it, palm still covered in lube, gives himself a stroke that makes him sigh as he watches the tip of his dick push up through his fist. It wouldn’t take more than a minute to make himself come. He squeezes his dick before he lets go, shifting again to feel the nudge of the toy inside him, the light shiver it causes. It’s nothing more than a tease right now, but he knows the sensation will intensify if he leaves it in longer, feeling its stretch and weight with every move. It’s an alluring idea, drawing it out, making himself desperate, the promised bliss of an orgasm delayed but all the stronger then.

Taking another deep breath, Andre forces himself to straighten, opening the faucet to wash his hands off the lube. He picks up his swim shorts, shaking them out before he steps back into them. He groans as the fabric covers his crotch, his hard cock nestling beneath the waistband he ties with the string. He squeezes himself through the fabric before he forces his hands away, taking a step back. He wants to lie down, eyes the soft sheets of the bed for a moment, but the thrill of being naughty, of daring something he wouldn’t otherwise, is still singing through his veins, as well as the lure of the warm late afternoon sun outside, his mind set on the sun loungers by the pool. On the stairs he has to clutch the handrail to keep from falling as his knees grow weak, the toy shifting unerringly inside him with every step he takes, his own harsh breathing loud in the empty halls of the house despite the music still doodling in the kitchen.

His senses seem heightened as he lies on the sun lounger. He can feel the grain of the towel against his skin, where it’s softened from water. He can feel the heat of the sun as it burns down on him, the line where the parasol is giving him shade like a line drawn by a fingertip across his skin, moving slowly. The wind whispers in the trees all around, the buzz of insects as they fly over to inspect the flowers blooming all along the hedges of the garden. The scent of their ripe blossoms is mixing with the chemical scent of the sun screen on his skin, the earthier fragrance of his sweat and underlying arousal. The urgency behind his need to get off has ebbed away slightly, his dick still engorged but not as rigid and close to coming as he’d been earlier. Still, it’s sticking to the inside of his shorts, a hot line over his stomach, the tip nudged up against the inside of the waistband.

Andre finds himself languidly moving his fingertips over his stomach, over the hot skin and the moisture gathered around his belly button. The touch feels sensual, forbidden almost. Through his half-lowered lashes he can almost imagine someone else touching him like this. When his fingers run along the waistband of his shorts, the muscles in his stomach quiver and he shifts, reminding him of the toy inside him. He can feel his cock twitch feebly in return, how it slightly moves the fabric covering it. He repeats the motion of his hand, lazily fascinated. His finger hooks into the bow he’d tied to hold the shorts up over his hips and he tugs on it, unravelling it slowly, pries the knot open. When he slides his fingers along the waistband anew, he can slip them underneath, the fabric now giving easily, watching the tip of his cock where it’s resting against his skin as he shifts the waistband to press down on it, holding it in place. The elastics inside the waistband aren’t strong, but they still produce a slight pressure against the delicate underside of his cock, just below the crown, and Andre can watch another drop of precome spill from the tip, slide down onto his stomach.

Andre feels debauched, utterly pornographic out in the open like this, risky and aroused, a thrill he wants to share if only to keep the loneliness at bay he knows will come with the comedown later.

His heart beats faster as he reaches for his phone where it’s laying next to the sun lounger. He unlocks the screen with sweaty hands, seeing the thumbprints he smears over the display. The camera app is only a swipe away. The view is wide enough to take in his soiled stomach, the stark contrast of his orange swim shorts in the foreground, the length of his legs, the bright blue of the pool and endless sky beyond in the background. He snaps a picture, hearing the fake shutter sound, then opens the messenger app. Another click has the picture sent across the Alps.

Still, his giddy nerves aren’t quite satisfied. He clicks on the image again, starts to cut it down to the square shape of an Instagram post. It removes some of the sky from the top of the image, removes the glistening skin of his stomach, the obscene flush of his cock, leaving only the bottom of his shorts with his legs sticking out of them, the pool and the edge of the sky. That naughty feeling is back as he uploads it to the social media app, adding a string of nonsensical summer-themed hashtags, checking the image again before he hits send. He watches the number of likes on the post slowly rise as he reaches down with his free hand to palm his cock through the fabric of the shorts, swipes his thumb over the tip, riding the spike of adrenaline.

Andre stays outside until the sun has dipped down towards the tops of the trees, the air decidedly cooler, playing with his phone. He keeps switching back to the messenger app, but there’s no reply from Helmut, no reaction to the picture, the thumbnail sized preview glaring at him every time he opens the chat window. His nerves are frayed as he picks up his belongings and places everything on the tray he brought out earlier. He ties his shorts again, his breath stuttering as the fabric rubs against his flushed skin, picking up his towel to sling it over his shoulders as he walks up towards the house. The tray he leaves in the kitchen, closing the patio doors behind himself. He isn’t really hungry, having picked at his snacks during the later afternoon, his skin prickling with the ever more urgent need for release. Taking his phone with him, Andre groans as he climbs the stairs to the upper level of the house.

His phone beeps just as he’s about to get under the shower, the water already running. For a second he thinks about looking at his phone, but then decides to shower first, that the message – if it is from Helmut at all – can wait another five minutes, his skin tacky with sweat and sun screen, making him feel gross. The water, switched on cool rather than hot, slides over his skin blissfully, the fresh scent of the bodywash clearing his head as much as it cleans his body. He lathers shampoo into his hair, trying to get at the grit of sand at the roots, but knows it will take a couple more washes until the fine sand will be gone entirely.

Shutting off the shower, Andre’s wet feet slip on the floor in the bedroom as he goes to the sink, grabbing a towel from the rack to rub over his hair as he walks. He reaches for his phone, waking the screen to see the message is indeed from Helmut.

Do you need help with that?

Andre grins at the unexpected question. He doesn’t know what he expected, but it surely wasn’t that. A reprimand probably, some choice curses maybe, or disapproval even; but there’s a promise behind the question that makes his skin crawl pleasantly with surprise, a new wave of arousal washing over him like the water from the shower.

If you’re offering,

He writes back, hitting send, keeping a hold on his phone until it lights up in his hand only a minute later.

I’ll be home in 15. You better still be hard then.

Andre groans, the humid, hot air caught in the room suddenly feeling stifling. He slings the towel around his neck, heading for the window and pulls it open, taking a deep breath of the cooler evening air. There’s still a faint glow of the sun behind the horizon, but the hills around him have fallen into darkness, only the chirping of night time insects loud in the garden below circling the lights he had installed around the patio and pool, the faint cry of birds in the distance. The thin curtains flutter in the light breeze, Andre’s damp skin prickling with goosebumps. He reaches up to run his fingers through his damp hair, smoothing it back over his head, his nerves strung tight. He doesn’t want to wait any longer, the prolonged tease of the day snapping around him. He hangs the towel by the window, switching off the overhead light and pads a couple of feet through the near darkness, the lights outside painting soft shapes of light onto the ceiling. He tosses the phone onto the duvet before he sinks onto the bed, sprawling out over the width of the mattress, his damp hair wetting the pillow, the moisture still clinging to his skin dried off by the sheets, but he doesn’t care. He turns onto his side, the shift of the buttplug inside him an almost comfortable, familiar sensation by now. The wide bed feels lonely, and he tugs on the pillows, arranging some of the firmer ones along one side, shifts until he's resting his back against them. It isn’t the same as a warm body, by far not the same as being held in someone’s embrace, but it’s better than nothing, curling up against his pillows as comfort something he won’t admit to anyone how often he’s done.

Closing his eyes, he lets his thoughts drift, anticipation making his skin sing. He thinks of Helmut, of his arms coming up around him, holding him tightly, murmuring into his ear. He thinks about the last couple days, about all the people he’s seen in various states of undress, wonders what they’d think of him now, that friend of Benoit’s, the clear interest in his eyes. He thinks of all the flirting with Jev, about how nothing ever came of it. He thinks of Tom, how he’d enjoy making Andre wait like this, ready and ripe for the plucking, how he’d draw out the tease and then leave Andre unsatisfied still, making sure he’d always come back for more.

His phone beeps with the sound of an incoming call, the familiar black and white photo Andre took of Helmut so long ago filling out the display, and he scrambles to pick it up, to hit the connect button. For a moment he considers the loudspeaker option, but instead pulls the phone to his ear, shifts it between the pillow and his ear. “Hey.”

“You tease.” Helmut’s voice is low and warm, curling around Andre like the warm summer air. Andre chuckles lightly, closing his eyes and turns his cheek against the pillow. “Well?”

“Well what?” Andre asks back.

“Are you still hard?”

Andre moans, a little surprised by the bluntness of Helmut’s question. “Yes,” he answers truthfully, squirming onto his back to spread out more across the mattress, putting himself on display despite not being seen. He could turn this into a video chat, he dimly thinks, but just hearing the shaky inhale of breath so close to his ear gives it its own kind of intimacy, one that fiddling with the phone to find some settings that work, angles of view, would easily shatter. “Yeah,” he repeats, canting his hips when the squirming makes the butt plug shift inside him, drawing his attention there. He bites his lip, catching his breath. “Just got out of the shower, wasn’t sure you’d even reply,” he says, allowing a hint of petulant neediness to creep into his voice.

“I shouldn’t have,” Helmut agrees, but his voice is still playful. “I’m letting you get away with too much shit, Andre. You’re a child that can’t be left unsupervised.”

Andre laughs softly. “You should be here then,” he says quietly.

Helmut just goes on, his voice an even and low rumble. “I should put you over my knee, give you a right good spanking for sending me naughty pictures at work. What would my client have said if they’d seen, hmm?” He speaks right over the choked-up noise Andre can’t hold back, picturing it; the familiar assertiveness Helmut displays when they train, his sternness, the way he usually doesn’t let Andre get away with shit translates so easily into the fantasy his words evoke. It’s different to the baby steps they’d been taking lately in their getting closer, the fragility of this new thing between them still haunting them both, but the distance and the feeble connection of the phone line seems to help, giving their words a kind of illusion, more a game than real action and reaction. “Would you have liked that? Me having to explain myself like that?”

Andre can picture it, the way Helmut would go still, only the slightest flush giving away his embarrassment. He wouldn’t stumble over words of apology, just closing the photo, trying to go for his usual aloof confidence. Andre almost snickers. “I’d be very sorry if you’d have to.” The thrill of being discovered is still toying with his nerves. “I would make it up to you?” he suggests, closing his eyes to concentrate on the shift in Helmut’s breathing, on the soft noise in the background as he shifts, the creak of leather. He frowns. “Where are you?” he wonders. It doesn’t sound like the rustling of sheets on his end. The sofa, then.

“My office.”

Groaning, Andre rubs his hand over his face. He can picture it, all the hours they’d sat in the office in Helmut’s house together, the high-backed leather swivel chair Helmut uses behind the bulk of his old wooden desk. He grins. “You’re making phone sex calls from your office?”

The small pause that follows his question shows Andre that he’s baffled Helmut, a soft note of self-deprecation creeping into his voice. “Shut up, Andre.”

Andre hums, settling back into the image. “I’m sure you’d make me,” he suggests. “I’d come up to your office after your client had left. It would feel like I’m back at school, being called up to the headmasters office after tagging a graffiti on the side of the gym.”

“You did that?”

“Mmh,” Andre nods.

“Mischief maker,” Helmut reprimands. “I hope you’d at least look like you’d feel bad about it.”

“I would. I’d wait in the doorway for you to ask me to come over,” he says, turning the end of the phrase almost into a question, a hopeful little rise to his voice.

“You’d still be dressed in just your swim shorts, right?” Helmut asks, and Andre can hear the creak of the leather chair again.

“Yeah, just my swim shorts,” Andre agrees, stroking his hand that isn’t clutching the phone to his ear slowly up and down his stomach, his touch feathery light. “I’d still be a little wet from the pool, the shorts all drenched and clingy.” Helmut curses quietly, and Andre groans in reply, scratching his blunt fingernails across his lower stomach. He can hear the clink of metal, Helmut opening the buckle of the soft, worn leather belt he wears so often. “I’d walk around the desk towards you, waiting for you to tell me what you want.”

“Kneel.”

The word catches both of them by surprise, a short, breathless moment.

Andre can almost feel the phantom pain of dropping to the hardwood floor to his knees. “Fuck,” he curses, almost a sob. He wants to be right there, right now, to show Helmut how willingly he’d go to his knees, bow his head to rest his forehead against his thigh.

“You know I love your mouth, right?” Helmut asks, his voice breathless and a little unsteady as if his own bluntness has thrown him as much as it does Andre. “You’re such a good kisser, you’ve got such a talented tongue. I never thought I’d like the feel of stubble against my skin, but I really do.”

The praise makes Andre almost dizzy. He reaches down, cups his cock in his hand, still too gentle a touch to give himself any satisfaction as his hips buck involuntarily upwards, smearing a drop of precome across his fingers and palm. “Please,” he says, almost a whimper. “I want to suck you, I want you in my mouth,” he begs, his voice hoarse like he’d been doing just that.

Helmut exhales shakily. “Yeah, you like that, right?” Andre groans, unable to find words, his nerves drawn tight from wanting, from the inability to make their shared fantasy come true right now. “You like it so much I could probably take out my laptop and just work for another hour or so, and you’d just keep sucking my dick.” Andre can’t hold back another keening noise. He’s clutching his phone with a white-knuckled grip against his ear as he lifts his other hand to his mouth. His fingers taste faintly of his own spunk as pushes two in between his lips, sucking on them. He doesn’t know how much of that translates through the small microphone through the phone, but Helmut’s breathing has become properly ragged too. He sucks harder, can’t quite push himself enough to imagine his fingers being Helmut’s cock, but it’s far easier to imagine them Helmut’s fingers instead as he curls his tongue around them, wetting them with saliva. It sets his mind spinning on another tangent and he groans around them, his whole body tensing in return, making him aware of the plug still inside him.

Andre drags the fingers from his mouth. He draws his legs up, pushes his soles into the mattress, the wanton spread of his legs concealed by the almost darkness in the room. “I want you to fuck me. On your desk.” He moans, forcing himself not to bite back the noises he makes, to allow Helmut to listen as he strokes damp fingertips down the length of his cock, over his balls and back down to where the round base of the butt plug sits snugly against his hole. He presses against it, feeling the length of the toy stir inside him. Desperate for more stimulation, he wedges the phone between his ear and the pillow, freeing his other hand to reach down, close it firmly around his dick. “Please, Helmut,” he gasps, thrusting up into his hand, clenching around the toy inside him in turn. “Please, I want you to.”

“Fuck,” Helmut curses heartily, his voice breathless. “You’re touching yourself, right?” he asks, barely even a question, the affirmative noise Andre makes not really necessary. “Fingering your arse too?”

Andre tugs on the butt plug, prying his fingers beneath the base to feel the stretch of the widest part nudge against his clenching hole. “Kinda, yeah,” Andre says, not really sure how to go on. He can feel himself flush with heat at the mere thought of trying to explain, to describe how he feels: desirable, filthy, slutty. “A toy,” he simply says, unable to go into detail, to pull himself from the wanton fantasy.

“God, you are wicked, I didn’t even know.” Helmut’s voice sound wrecked through the phone, his breathing laboured. “You have to show me, next time,” he suggests. “I want to know what you do to yourself when no one’s around.”

“You do?” Andre asks, his voice wavering as he moves his hand faster on his cock. He swallows heavily, twisting his head slightly. The smooth display of the phone sticks to the sweaty skin of his cheek. He can picture it, even more easily than himself being in Helmut’s office: Helmut being here in Gordes instead, sitting in the vintage wing-backed chair that’s nothing more than a dark shadow by the window right now in perfect view of the bed. Andre flexes his hips involuntarily, his feet sliding a little against the mattress, becoming aware of the lascivious spread of his legs, how he’s presented on the bed. It’s dark, but he feels exposed like a spotlight shown on him as he imagines doing this in front of Helmut, a display for him to watch, his toy box on the floor by Helmut’s feet for him to choose from whatever he wants Andre to use on himself.

The tension of the day snaps around him, Helmut’s murmured _Yes, I want to see how you make yourself come_ the last spark to set the crackling heat in his guts on fire, the sudden rush of orgasm cresting, tipping him over, drowning him in the noises he can’t keep from spilling over his lips as he fucks up into his tight fist, the fingers of his other hand slippery with lube as he twists the plug inside him, caught between the two different sensations.

For long moments his harsh breathing echoes around the room, the only thing he can really hear. He’s got his eyes closed, his body relaxing into a lazy sprawl that takes in the whole of the bed. He can feel the tension draining out of himself, weighing down his body. A gentle breeze flows over his heated skin, making him shiver in the air slowly cooled with the lack of sun outside. Andre blinks his eyes open, his gaze falling onto the empty chair. It makes his stomach swoop uncomfortably and he scrambles for the phone that’s slipped away from his ear, clutching it tightly. “Fuck,” he groans, rubbing his hand over his face when he hears the soft sound of Helmut’s breathing, of him calling out Andre’s name quietly.

Helmut chuckles warmly. “You fell off the bed or what?” he asks warmly, his voice a relaxed drawl.

“Phone slipped,” Andre answers, hearing Helmut hum in reply before he falls silent. They’re both hanging after their own thoughts for a moment, caught in the laziness of afterglow Andre wishes they could share more than just through the sound of their breathing and words over the phone. He shivers again and curls onto his side to reach for one of the large pillows to hold onto. The move makes the toy shift inside him again, in a by now uncomfortable way and Andre bites his lip, reaching behind himself to rid himself of it, can’t quite keep in the whimper at the soreness it leaves behind after wearing it for so long, the sudden empty feeling. Pulling the sheet tightly around himself he clutches at the pillow, a poor substitute for the warmth of Helmut’s body, for the strength of his embrace. “You should be here.”

“I’m right here,” Helmut answers, ignoring the unhappy noise Andre makes. “And I’ll see you soon. Lemans isn’t far away now.”

“Still too far,” Andre says. He’s tired, drained, still feeling too exposed despite the sheet covering him now; scratched open.

“Go to sleep, and it will be one day less,” Helmut says with the same childish logic he’d use to soothe a child.

“It’s ridiculous.” Andre sighs, snuggling closer against the pillow. It’s been so long, it doesn’t even carry Helmut’s scent; Andre wants to steal one of Helmut’s shirts, one of his hoodies maybe to bury his face in whenever the other isn’t there, much like the spare shirts he leaves for Max whenever the dog is in Belgium with his mum. “This summer, I’m not letting you out of my grasp.” He knows he sounds needy but doesn’t know how to fight it.

“I miss you too,” Helmut says easily, and the admission that Andre’s feelings are returned make him breathe a little easier.


End file.
